even, or posthumous (in the wake of)
by lord-is-it-mine
Summary: Will can hear the desire buzzing in the air between them- here, they are on even ground. Nature's laws must be observed- food, sex, sleep. For Will, killing has fed a sense of self that, until now, he has been afraid to name. Food, sex, sleep. Nature's laws must be observed. ((post-2x09. PWP))


Will sits statue-still, only half present in the aftermath of his own brutality, caught in the wake left behind by the ship he keeps swimming after. The cold, stale water of realisation pushes at his lips- he keeps his jaw closed tight and his nose above the surface. He will not allow himself to drown. Will is aware of what he has done. He does not regret. He knows he must stink of it- the blatant disallowance of remorse- but it is less disallowance, he knows, and more a simple absence. Kill or be killed is a principle that all creatures must abide by.

Still, he sinks further into himself, retreating so far that soon the bottom of his mind is ready to fall through at the slightest touch. Hannibal must sense this as he ever so gently tends to Will's steady and wounded hands. Will feels Hannibal's voice resonating through his fingers as he speaks- every syllable thrums in Will's over-sensitive ears. Adrenaline still pounds through his chest, but he remains docile as a sleeping dog.

"Stay with me." Hannibal says, feeling the slip and pulling up on his grasp of Will's consciousness. It is not a plea, but a test of footing, to determine the thickness of the ice he must cross before he can begin to scale the walls that hide Will's innermost thoughts. He waits expectantly for it to crack beneath his feet.

"Where else would I go?" Will means it not as a question, but as an answer (_the ice is thick enough_). He tries to make it sound more like a warning (_tread carefully_), and less like the admission that it is (_I have nowhere else to go_- or- _there's nowhere else I'd rather be_).

Hannibal's hands move from Will's, ghosting over his wrists, thumbs pressing into the pulse points there, reading the slow and even rhythm of Will's body. Constant. Unwavering. Unafraid. Without reservation or hesitation. Will can hear the desire buzzing in the air between them- here, they are on even ground. Nature's laws must be observed- food, sex, sleep. For Will, killing has fed a sense of self that, until now, he has been afraid to name. Food, sex, sleep. Nature's laws must be observed.

Hannibal does not lunge, as he would towards prey. Will may have been prey, in another time- another life, a previous form, perhaps- but he has been reincarnated, born into the body of a predator (he knows that the mind of a killer has long been a part of Will; the beginning of a transformation that Hannibal himself had scarcely hoped for). And so he does not lunge- he feels the muscles in his shoulders tense and drive him on- he surges forward to meet the taste of anticipation and longing that has gathered on Will's lips- he knows he himself must taste the same way. The movement is thick and fluid, as thought they are reaching for each other underwater. Will finds that his attempt not to drown has failed in one respect. He finds it doesn't matter.

Will meets Hannibal's kiss with equal intensity, confident and familiar with the way their mouths fit seamlessly together. It doesn't take long for one of them to open up- Will really can't care less who does it first- normally it's a contest, a power play, but tonight Will is content just so long as he can slide his tongue against Hannibal's, lick into his mouth and find the sharp taste of nothing in particular. He can imagine the tang of blood or the spice of smoke- taste is irrelevant at the moment, even though it is so common a thread in their conversations. All that matters now is the heated exchange, the tilt of their heads as Will pulls roughly at Hannibal's so neatly groomed hair. He feels it fall from its combed-back place and relishes his ability to make Hannibal so undone, to peel back the mask in a way he knows only he can do, in a way he knows Alana thinks she must have done by now. The sting of jealousy is quickly dwarfed by the fire under his skin that he is so accustomed to- it burns low in his stomach in an ache that feels much like starvation, and he wonders at how many kinds of hunger there are, all pulsing inside of him.

Hannibal pulls away from him, his chair sliding roughly across the floor as he moves himself from it to kneel between Will's widespread legs. Hannibal looks at him through veiled eyes, and Will hardly has time to catch his breath before Hannibal's lips are on Will's neck, making Will gasp loudly. Hannibal smiles predatorily and smugly against Will's skin, the wet kiss turning to a harsh suck. He marks Will thoroughly, leaving bruises in plain sight, where he knows they can't be covered despite Will's affinity for scarves during the colder months.

Hannibal finds great pleasure in such a simple action, knowing that even though no one will ever find out who marked Will so blatantly, Will now has no choice but to think of Hannibal every time he feels someone's eyes linger on the obvious spots of possession that cover his skin. In this way, Hannibal dwells constantly in Will's mind, and this is the greatest pleasure of all.

The highest mark goes just below Will's jaw, earning Hannibal a groan from deep in Will's chest. He finds Will's pulse point and bites down, and the groan becomes a high keen in the back of Will's throat. His fingers tighten in Hannibal's hair. Hannibal breaks skin, drinking in the taste of tepid blood that flows from Will's flushed skin. The flavour is one that he's become quite intimate with- tonight it carries hints of quelled rage and no small amount of need- the overpowering bitter-sweetness sits heavily on his tongue. The heady smell of Will's arousal is evident when he pulls away to lick once over the wound he has made. Will's approval of all this comes in the form of fingernails scratching slowly at Hannibal's scalp- something that sends pleasant jolts of electricity scattering over Hannibal's skin.

Will pulls Hannibal up quickly for another kiss, the act screaming of desperation, he knows, though he finds it difficult to care. He can't begin to keep count of the times he's succumbed to his dependency on Hannibal's mouth alone. He can taste his own blood in Hannibal's mouth, and then in his own as Hannibal bites Will's bottom lip, sending a shock of pain through him. He finds that all it does is go straight south, and he finally realises how hard he is, how wanting- Hannibal palms him through his pants and he whimpers involuntarily. The reflexive jolt of Will's hips as they seek friction is beneficial; Hannibal begins to work at Will's belt. Hannibal doesn't seem to be in a teasing mood tonight- for this, Will is grateful. Hannibal slowly slides down to his knees, and Will's heart skips a beat in anticipation- no matter how many times they do this, the rush quite never goes away- the high is always just as all consuming as the first time.

Will moves before Hannibal has to even coax him into it. He braces his feet on the floor and lifts himself from the chair long enough for Hannibal to unbutton, unzip, and pull his pants down just enough to bring Will's erection into the open air. He takes a long look up at Will's face through long lashes- Will's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. Hannibal can smell it on him; arousal presents differently on every person, and while not many of them are unappealing, there has always been something particularly addictive about Will's scent. It had taken Hannibal a while to find it beneath the fear and truly unfortunate aftershave he so commonly wore. But once Will's mind had opened up to him, Hannibal had found himself incapable of driving the smell of Will's skin from his memory.

The first touch of Hannibal's mouth to Will's cock has Will moaning loudly, his voice ringing out in the stillness of the room. His hand immediately flies from Hannibal's hair to his own mouth, preventing anything more than muffled groans from escaping him as Hannibal sucks him off. If there is one thing Will is still self conscious of, even after all they've done, it's the noises that Hannibal is able to so easily pull out of him. Perhaps he thinks of them as weakness- perhaps they make it impossible for him to detach himself from the situation as he is so fond of doing. Hannibal normally chastises him for it- ties him down and teases him until Will is a trembling begging mess- but tonight is not the night for that. Tonight is about necessity- and so Hannibal allows Will to keep a hand over his own mouth. He does however take Will's other hand, encouraging him to pull Hannibal's hair as he had been doing before- this, it seems, is a necessity for Hannibal.

Thankfully, Will gets the message, carding his fingers through Hannibal's hair and ever so slightly pulling him closer, forcing his cock into the back of Hannibal's throat. Hannibal takes it gratefully, groaning in encouragement as the unconscious movement of Will's hips becomes deliberate, fucking Hannibal's mouth with slow and steady thrusts. As much as their relationship has been about the ways in which Hannibal has used Will, it has become about all the ways in which Hannibal has allowed himself to be used. Allowed being the operative word- even now, Hannibal is in control- Will's pleasure is driving him, the white heat if instinct urging him to chase release with reckless abandon. And though Hannibal enjoys the feeling of Will's pleasure, the heat and the fullness that soaks through him, he is always the one to drive Will over the edge ahead of himself.

If Will were in any state of coherent thought, he would hear the sounds Hannibal makes as he begins to stroke himself. Now he only feels them, the humming and moaning against his most sensitive skin. Usually he catalogues the sounds as Hannibal makes them- they are so few and far between that he has come to see them as some sort of cosmic event- the planets aligning in such a way, certain stars coming into view, illuminating the facets and faces of Hannibal that Hannibal may not even know he has. Will used to think he was smart for finding them out- he has no such illusions now. Hannibal lets him see what Hannibal wants him to see. But in this evolution of their partnership, Hannibal has let Will see more than he ever has thus far.

It doesn't take long for the fire under Will's flesh to burn to its crescendo- the first flames have been licking at his heels since Hannibal first looked at him tonight. His hips roll on and on, a rising tide, a repeating crash, until the wave finally breaks. He comes hard, arching his back almost painfully, in a way that only adds to the intensity of his orgasm. Only then does his hand come from his mouth, gripping tightly at the arm of the chair to keep himself steady. He nearly cries out as Hannibal swallows around him, throat milking him dry. He can feel Hannibal come shortly thereafter, his mouth going slack to pull off Will with a ragged, breathy moan.

Will looks down at Hannibal, whose face betrays no evidence of anything they've just done, but for a satisfied smirk. The overwhelming tension between their bodies has subsided, sated for the moment, and Will feels himself drifting near the edges of the final stage- food, sex, sleep. He has drowned once again, he knows, in the vast depths of his own needs- and wants.

He knows he might never wash up on the shore of whatever life he might have had. Somehow, he doesn't feel so lost as he once thought he was.


End file.
